‘Yes?’
‘So tell me why you think this is all justified,’ Ishaq said. ‘Because it just sounds like treason to me.’
The Euchar trooper sneered and turned back to his friends. Ishaq tapped him on the shoulder again.
‘No, really, I’m interested in your perspective.’
‘Piss off, boy.’
‘Just answer the question,’ Ishaq smiled.
The Euchar gave a grin that would have been more threatening if he didn’t have flakes of his last meal caught between his teeth. ‘The Warmaster conquered half the galaxy, didn’t he? The Emperor’s been hiding back on Terra for half a century.’
Typical soldier logic, Ishaq thought. While one man dealt with the incomparable scale of managing an entire interstellar empire, he was infinitely less respected than the man who waged war in the most simple, aggressive terms, and always from positions of tactical, numerical and materiel supremacy.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Ishaq feigned a thoughtful expression. ‘You admire the man who has armies large enough never to lose a single war, but loathe the man responsible for the vision and effort of actually maintaining the Imperium?’
The Euchar scoffed at Ishaq’s description, and turned his back on the remembrancer. For just a moment, the imagist wondered if he was missing some key point in all this. The Word Bearers were here under Imperial orders, summoned to help put down Horus’s rebellion. Yet here, the human staff and crews of the expeditionary fleet were practically united in favour of Horus’s actions.
He sipped the drink and immediately regretted it.
‘Delicious,’ he said to the girl behind the bar.
The talk rattled on around him. Ishaq let it filter in, as he did most nights, listening without speaking, eavesdropping without being brazen about it. He was a passive seeker of public opinion. Easier to avoid fights that way – the Cellar had become a little more ‘fisticuffy’ since the soldiers had started drinking here too.
‘The Word Bearers won’t attack Horus,’ one voice said with solemn surety.
‘It’s not a war. They’re here to negotiate.’
‘It’ll be a war if the negotiations fail.’
‘The Emperor is a relic of the Unification Wars. The Imperium needs more from its leaders now.’
‘Horus hasn’t even committed any crime. The Emperor is overreacting out of fear.’
‘It won’t come to battle. Lorgar will see to that.’
‘The Emperor won’t even leave Terra to deal with this?’
‘Does he even care about the Imperium?’
‘I heard Horus will lead the other primarchs to Terra.’
Ishaq left his drink unfinished as he headed back to his personal chamber on the communal civilian deck. He wanted to believe he had only so much stomach for bad beverages and seditionist ideology, but the truth was far more prosaic. He didn’t have much money left.
Halfway to his room, he decided to change his course. Sitting bored in his chamber yet again wouldn’t achieve anything, and even without the coin to get pleasantly drunk, he could do what he’d done back in those first nights after joining the Legion’s fleet. It was a duty that had, for better or worse, lapsed in recent weeks. His endless attempts to arrange a meeting with one of the Gal Vorbak were rebuffed each and every time. The crimson warriors’ seclusion was ironclad, and it was rumoured even the Custodes were barred from accessing their meditation chambers. The continuous refusals and lack of battle had dulled the remembrancer’s ambitious interest somewhat, but with nothing else to do, it was time to get back in the game.
Ishaq checked his picter’s battery cell, and went off in search of something that would make him famous.
The primarch was waiting for them.
As they disembarked from the Rising Sun and onto the main hangar platform of Fidelitas Lex, Lorgar stood in full warplate, the massive crozius maul Illuminarum in his grey fists. At his side, Erebus and Kor Phaeron wore their own granite-dark armour, the surfaces of each armour plate etched with invocations from the Word. Behind them, the entire First Company formed an imposing welcome in their overbearing suits of Terminator wargear, bearing double-barrelled bolters and long blades in brutish fists.
Lorgar’s benevolent countenance broke into a warm smile as the thirty-seven crimson warriors walked onto the hangar deck. As one, they went to their knees before their liege lord.
Lorgar gestured for them to rise. ‘Are your memories so short? My Gal Vorbak need never kneel before me.’
Argel Tal was the first back to his feet, noting the distaste upon Kor Phaeron’s aged features. He growled, baring his teeth at the first captain as his gauntlet claws extended.
Lorgar chuckled at the display. ‘My prayers are answered,’ the primarch continued, ‘for you have arrived.’
‘As ordered,’ said Argel Tal and Xaphen in the same moment.
The Gal Vorbak had little cohesion in their ranks. There was no pretence of standing at attention or gathering in orderly rows. They stood together but alone, each one remaining among their brothers yet guarding their personal space with narrowed eyes behind crystal blue helm lenses.
‘We make planetfall within the hour,’ Lorgar said. ‘Argel Tal, Xaphen, for now, I would have you come with us. You will rejoin your brothers before we commence the assault.’
‘Very well,’ said Argel Tal.
‘The Custodes?’ Lorgar asked. ‘Tell me they still live.’
‘They still live. We have them scattered on four separate vessels, assigned with “overseeing the defence” if the vessels are boarded in the coming battle.’
‘They know there will be a battle?’ Lorgar rounded on Argel Tal.
‘They are not fools, nor are they inured to news as it spreads from ship to ship. They are placed on four vessels that are... delayed... in the warp. Their Navigators and captains have been appraised of the situation’s delicacy, sire. The Custodes will not arrive until the Battle of Isstvan is won.’
Xaphen broke in. ‘They were spared, as you ordered.’ He ignored Argel Tal’s glare, feeling it despite the fact his brother still wore his helm.
‘It was not my order – at least not in recent years.’ The primarch gestured to Erebus, who inclined his head in turn. ‘The First Chaplain has demanded they remain alive all this time. He weaves the plans that require them alive.’
Argel Tal said nothing, though he openly radiated annoyance. Xaphen was less restrained. ‘Erebus?’ he asked, smiling behind his faceplate. ‘I have paid heed to every addendum and subscript in the Book of Lorgar, brother. I’ve used many of your new rituals myself. I would be keen to learn more of this one.’
‘In time, perhaps.’
Xaphen thanked the other Chaplain as the group moved on. Erebus remained closest to the primarch as they walked away – his stoic, tattooed features as stern and dignified as ever. Kor Phaeron stalked in their wake, the heavy gear-joints of his Terminator armour grinding with each step. Xaphen kept his actions the very mirror of Erebus’s, but Argel Tal glanced at the First Captain with a smile.
‘What amuses you, brother?’ the ageing half-Astartes asked.
‘You do, old one. You reek of fear. I pity you, that they never bred the human terror out of your bones.’
‘You think I feel fear?’ The scarred face twisted into something even sourer. ‘I have seen more than you know, Argel Tal. We have not been idle in the true Legion, while you danced at the galaxy’s edge, playing nursemaid to the Custodes.’
Argel Tal merely chuckled, the laugh leaving his helm in a low growl of crackling vox.
The Fidelitas Lex played host to a gathering of rare significance.